i know how this story ends
by Diane Langley
Summary: "A standard grave is two and a half feet wide and eight feet long, according to the International Cemetery, Cremation, and Funeral Association. These dimensions take into account room for the headstone. This grave would not have a headstone. It wouldn't even have a body." Diana Prince and Clark Kent say goodbye to Bruce Wayne.
A standard grave is two and a half feet wide and eight feet long, according to the International Cemetery, Cremation, and Funeral Association. These dimensions take into account room for the headstone.

This grave would not have a headstone. It wouldn't even have a body. Bruce Wayne had been buried three days ago.

Diana Prince slid the back of the shovel along the side of the hole, slicing away the final imperfections in dirt wall. The grave rose around her on every side, corners cut to exactly 90 degrees and walls scraped smooth. Six feet under brought the grave walls just to the top of her head.

She looked around at her completed work, and she leaned on the shovel. Her muscles in her arms burned from the exertion. Even goddesses can pull muscles

She put her arms over the top of the grave and pulled her own weight out. The dirt ground against her as she did so, leaving dark traces along the pale skin. She wiped them away and looked back down into the hole.

Clark's feet caught her attention before his voice drifted to her. "That's an awful big hole."

His Kansas roots showed in his voice sometimes, but they showed in his appearance less and less. Right now, he wore a tailored suit, cut perfectly, and clean shoes. His same old glasses balanced on his nose, but they could not disguise the crow's feet starting to grow at the edges of the blue eyes.

"I measured it. It's exact."

"For a body?" Pity and concern crept around the edges of his voice. She squared her shoulders.

"To put someone to rest."

"Okay." His kindness killed her. He rested in the silence without pushing her to say or do something else. She found herself staring at him; she didn't know what she was waiting for. No one else was coming. She had only called Clark.

"I thought Damian spoke well at the funeral." It seemed Clark couldn't bear the silence any longer. She tilted her face up to the sunshine and breathed in slowly; the warmth seeped into her skin as she tried not to let him remind her of that Monday afternoon. His words carried her there anyway.

Bruce Wayne's funeral had been simple for someone so wealthy. He had planned the arrangments in advance. No flowers, no singing, and no press. Diana had been surprised how many oxygen tanks and walkers had made their way to pay their respects. The new generation might have little use for philanthropic billionaires, but people still remained who valued the good money could bring to a city, even a cesspool of a city like Gotham. Damian had spoken of his father's legacy, giving his words such spinning doubletalk that they could appeal to both the civilians and the League members present.

"Hopefully his words will match his actions," she said.

"He has respected Bruce's wishes that he not kill. He has been Batman for years now."

A muscle in her neck tightened, and she nearly shuddered. Bruce had called her the day he hung up the cowl for the last time. His voice had been so matter-of-fact, neutral even, as if he did not realize what his words were doing to her.

That had been the day she realized she would one day bury him.

She ignored Clark's comment about Damian. "I know he didn't want a funeral for the League because he wasn't fighting anymore, and I respect that. But you and I..." She heard her voice catch and forced herself to slow down, swallowing and taking a deep breath. "I thought I had to do better than just throwing these things in the ground."

"What things-?" Clark's eyes tracked to the tidy pile on the ground. "Wow. I haven't seen this in years. Is this the original?"

Diana reached down to pick up the cape. The slick fabric slithered through her fingers. So impractical. In the early days, Bruce and Alfred had spent as much time stitching capes up as gathering intelligence. It was a silly cape, but she found her fingers were trembling as she held onto it.

"Yes. One of them."

"He hadn't worn the cape for a long time." She could hear the nostalgic smile in Clark's voice. She did not look up. "How did you end up with this?"

Diana remembered Bruce showing her the new suit in the Batcave, unveiling (with an almost smile) an armored creation that would allow him to fight evil on a grander scale than crime. He had been showing her the features, and she had commented that she would miss the cape. Though he had said nothing then, she had found it folded up on the seat of her jet the next time she climbed in the cockpit. Bruce had not been one for unnecessary words.

"It's a long story."

She jumped into the hole in the ground and gently laid down the cape. She spread it onto the dirt, pushing out the wrinkles.

"Pass me the photographs please."

She looked up at Clark. His jaw was tight, and she saw disapproval in his eyes. But he bent down and picked up the photos that had been lying under the cape and handed them to her. Without meeting his gaze again, she bent down and began to lay the photos out on the cape. One was a newspaper clipping of Bruce Wayne at a charity function with ambassador, Diana Prince, on his arm. Another clip showed Batman, Wonder Woman, and Superman standing against the city skyline after battling Bizarro. A polaroid of Bruce and Dick. A selfie taken by The Flash with a disapproving Batman at his side. A photo paper-print out of Bruce, grey, wrinkled, and weary, on his 90th birthday with Diana smiling beside him and a host of metahumans behind him, celebrating the occasion. Bruce had been so very weak towards the end.

She laid each photo out until the cape was covered.

"Diana-" Clark began to say something but stopped himself.

"There should be one more thing up there." Her voice was flat.

Dutifully, Clark bent down to place the cowl in her hands. In time, the simple mask with its bat ears had been replaced by something mechanized and protective. The later iteration had been smarter, but she had loved the fearlessness of the man who raced into danger wearing only a Halloween mask. She cradled the fabric in her hands, lifted it up, and pressed her face into it. The waterproof fabric resisted the two stray tears that fell onto it.

Wordlessly, she laid the cowl down as well, placing it gently above the top of the cape. She pulled herself back out of the grave.

"You don't have to bury these things, Diana. You might want them again someday," Clark said.

She ignored his well-meant platitude. "Would you like to say something? I know you didn't get a chance to speak at the funeral."

Clark stared at her for a few long seconds, and she held his gaze. If he expected her to flinch, he was wrong. Finally, he looked down at the memorial she had created inside the grave she had dug and spoke to it.

"You were a brave man and a true friend. You met each challenge you faced head-on. You will be missed." He paused and then corrected himself. "You have been missed."

If she had expected him to say something that would soften the hard lump in her throat, she was disappointed.

"Would you like to say anything?" He asked her.

She shook her head. "No."

Picking the shovel back up, she began to fill in the hole. The sound of the dirt raining down on the bottom of the hole had a terrible definitiveness to it. She was grateful when Clark began to help her, but the task ended before she was ready. She stared at the fresh grave, a scar on the earth.

"Listen, I know you're having a hard time, but I've been through this before. I've lost my parents, Lois... I've learned something about grief along the way."

She stuck her chin out, unwilling to hear what he wanted to say. "I don't want to hear about who you've buried, Clark. It doesn't matter."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't need your lessons on grief. I'm going to be the one who has to bury you."

Diana picked up her shovel and walked away without looking back. Her immortality hung heavy on her shoulders.

* * *

 **AN:** This fic was written for the /r/fanfiction Make Me Feel challenge. The story had to begin with digging a grave and be emotional without talking about emotions.


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